Brent and I sat aghast!
“I think,” Brent said, soberly, “that Tom has given us conclusive
evidence as to Roland McClintick being alive. That is up until a few
nights ago, if we don’t find the hermit.”
“You think then, the hermit and Roland McClintick are one person?” I
queried.
“Of course,” Brent said. “The scar proves it in every instance.”
“Still, lots of people have scars on their feet though,” Tom said.
“I suppose they have,” Brent agreed. “But what we want to find out is
why Mr. McClintick identified the body that was taken from the lake as
his son, when he knew his son to be in Montreal. Someone else was killed
in his place and we want to find out why?”
“Could it have been Northrop?” Tom asked wonderingly. “Or Weston?”
“I don’t know,” Brent answered. “But I do know or rather hope, when we
hear from Coover’s Falls that it will be something interesting and worth
hearing.”
“Then the murdered and the murderer lies between Northrop and Weston?”
“I’m sure of it,” said Brent, “from what Tom has told us of that ’phone
conversation. It was deliberate murder and whoever killed that unknown
person out on the lake also murdered the elder McClintick. Both murders
were committed for some cause, certainly.”
“What of the empty grave?” Tom asked. “Perhaps the murderer has been in
fear of discovery and came back to completely destroy the body. In that
way one could never find out who the culprit or victim was.” Brent was
certainly uncanny in his new role of sleuth, yet his theories did fit
together.
“That brings us back to the motive,” he went on. “They say murders are
committed almost always for three reasons; money, hate or insanity.” I
happened to think when Brent mentioned the three reasons, of my
informant at Long Branch, the day I went to hunt up Mr. McClintick.
Hadn’t he told me how Seven Towers and the other estate at Newport had
been sold? His palatial New York home also? And if I remembered rightly
he said he had heard that Mr. McClintick needed the money. I told all
this to Tom and Brent.
“Well then,” said Brent, “the motive is clear. He needed the money. And
he could get it by reporting that the body they found in the lake to be
that of his son.”
We were startled out of our perplexing problems by a wild, moaning cry.
“The lynx!” Tom said. “I bet he misses the hermit.”
“How do you suppose he ever made a pet of that animal?” Brent asked me.
“As this seems to be a night of deductions, I would say that he must
have gotten hold of him when he was a cub. I’ll also venture to mention
that our friend Peters might not have killed his lynx cub after all. You
never can tell.”
Two sharp knocks sounded on the door! Tom went forward quickly and flung
it open. Rivers stood there.
“Whew!” Tom said. “You did give us a scare, Charlie. Why didn’t you come
in? The door was unlocked.”
“It’s so late, I didn’t think you’d be up. Thought you forgot to put out
your light!” Rivers came inside and Tom closed the door.
“Sit down, Rivers,” I said. “We’ve been so interested in our talk, we
didn’t realize the hour.”
“Just as soon stand,” he murmured. “Going back to bed right away.” He
turned to Tom.
“That pesky lynx woke me. Got up. Looked ’round ’n as I went ter go back
ter bed, I could a’ sworn somethin’ passed the winder. Didn’t see
nothin’ when I walked over here though. Guess it’s a’right.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “We’ll get that wild bird to-morrow night, eh
Charlie?”
“Sure as I live,” he grinned. “Too much of a nuisance ter live,” he said
walking toward the door; and said good-night.
“What a charming outlook that fellow has on life?” Brent said, after Tom
had locked the door. “Charity to animals hasn’t a place in his scheme of
things.”
“Aw,” Tom said, in a defensive tone. “You just don’t understand him,
Brent, he’s a woodsman. They’re all that way.”
“Well you’re not,” Brent said, “and I’d say _you_ were thoroughly
woodsy.”
“No, I’m not! Not the way he is. He’s truly native and I’m just an
artificial product. Too chicken-hearted to be a real born scout like
Rivers.”
“Well, then, give me your chicken-hearted scouts, Tommy. Artificial
products are ofttimes nicer than the real article and in this case I
like the real human touch in a mere scout better than the real born
scout in a mere human.”
“Very well said, Brent!” I applauded.
Tom turned the lamp down and Brent and I started up the stairs and
disappeared within the darkness of our respective rooms.
“Oh, Brent!” Tom called, as he came running up the stairs. “Do you think
Charlie really saw anyone just now?”
“It might have been the hermit!” Brent answered tauntingly, “or his
ghost!”
“Gosh,” I heard Tom say, as he passed my door, “if your theories aren’t
enough to make a fellow’s head whirl!”
“Good-night, Tommy!” Brent said, in his most soothing manner.
“Good-night!”